“Poor fellow!” said Miss Willmot. “Poor boy! What he must have gone through before he did that!”
“He went through no more than any other man went through,” said the Major; “but they stuck it and he shirked. There are men enough who deserve our pity, Miss Willmot. We can’t afford to waste sympathy on cowards.”
Miss Willmot was of another mind. For her there was a law higher even than the Major’s lofty code of chivalry and honour. She had pity to spare for cowards.
The Major himself was not wholly consistent. As he rose to leave the kitchen he spoke of the prisoner again.
“He doesn’t look like a man who’d do it. He looks like a gentleman. That makes it worse, of course, much worse. All the same, he doesn’t look it.”
“Well?” said Digby, when the Major left.
“I can’t do anything,” said Miss Willmot “In a case of this kind there’s nothing to be done.”
But Miss Willmot made up a little parcel before she left the canteen. There were cigarettes in it, and chocolate, and a couple of mince pies, and a large slice of cake, and some biscuits. Afterwards she acted lawlessly, offended against discipline, treated rules and regulations with contempt.
Sergeant O’Rorke was sitting in the guard-room playing patience when Miss Willmot entered. He stood up at once and saluted.
“Terrible weather, miss. I’ll never say again that it rains in the County Galway. Sure, it doesn’t know how. A man would have to come to France to find out what rain is.”